


The Sum of All Lives

by CailinDubh



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Diversify Mad Max, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Max On His Own, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Culture, Road Trips, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CailinDubh/pseuds/CailinDubh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What you doing out here, stray dog?" asked the History Man. "You don't need to be out here."</p><p> </p><p>Max has spent a lifetime watching helplessly as horrors befell himself and others, now worn down and drained by his own trauma. But on the subject of learning to heal from it? Max is woefully, painfully lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sum of All Lives

Three times now this traveler had graced the History Man with his dull presence, but both of the previous times he'd actually had something to trade the History Man wanted. This time he did not, and what's more, what he wanted was far more valuable than anything a sane man would ask for. He had balls, this one, rolling up to the History Man with a request like that, marching right through the field of bones that surrounded his yurt like it was nothing but dead grass. Maybe this one wasn't so dull after all.

"You're bold," said the History Man, after deciding that, yes, the traveler was serious about his trade request. "I'll give you that."

All the traveler gave as response or incentive grunted was a soft "hmph." He wasn't even looking at the History Man, just standing still in the doorframe of the yurt as he was asked to, gaze askance, like there was something more interesting outside.

The History Man stood up, sending a few papers flying. His yurt was lined with them, in piles, on the walls, some collected and some not, and a few even still in their original “book” form. It swelled around him, a point of pride for him and of confusion to the rest of the world, a world to whom survival and knowledge were not intimately linked.

The History Man shuffled past one of his piles of tomes and wordburgers, shuffled some papers out of the way he had not yet sorted through. He had an old drawer of jewelry and baubles in which he hid his stash of mindmorphers. He drew out the little baggy containing what the traveler was asking after.

He turned, and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "Bold," he said. "Who told you?"

"No one," snapped the traveler with a sureness that told the History Man it was truth.

"Good." The traveler was, after all, asking after one of the most valuable and sought after substances known to man. Might be harder fending off the jackals of the wasteland if they knew what was in his collection. “Men claw each other's eyes out to get this,” he said, holding up the little plastic bag. The contents looked like mummified sugar. “Wars were started over this in the old world. You know that? 'Opium Wars,' they called it. Forget fighting over water! This sends men stark raving for want, a hunger and a thirst like you can't imagine, that’s what this little magic does to people. You don’t see me giving this up for scavenge, do you?”

The traveler glared at him, his expression nowhere near as opaque as he thought it was. “It’s what I’ve got,” he all but grunted. He was not practiced at hiding intent, or at talking for that matter. Ferals, hermits, they were all like that.

“You’ve got water, too,” said the History Man. “But water I can find. This?” He flicked the withered bag with the back of a fingernail. "This is a finite resource. Use this up, it's gone for good.”

The traveler continued to assess him, feet still rooted in dirt, thumbs hooked in his pockets. He had a slight beard, but not the wild storm of hair that coalesced around the maw of most ferals. But then again, this one wasn’t truly feral. The History Man had known that the first time he'd laid eyes on him.

The History Man’s lips drew thin over his teeth, his dark skin weathered like old paper. “You think I don’t know what you’ve got in the backseat of that car out there, don’t you?”

The traveler’s breath hitched softly. “Does it matter?”

“I know this isn’t for you,” said the History Man, pocketing the plastic bag. “That mess in your car. Your doing?”

"No." The traveler was growing impatient; this he was also bad at hiding. But he knew better than to try anything against the History Man. Not all of his ilk had symbolic deterrents like a field of bleached bones, but this one did. The History Man had ways of getting rid of unwanted visitors, and of staying alive.

“Time is not on your side, friend-o,” said the History Man. “I’d like to take a look at what you’ve got in your car.”

“No,” the traveler stated firmly. “I'll throw in two tins of water with the scavenge. And blood.”

The History Man arched a crusted brow. “Blood?”

“Universal donor blood.”

“Ain’t got no ice. Blood goes bad.”

“Seed, then.”

The History Man coughed out a dry laugh. “Ain't no takers out here for seed. Who out here can raise a pup?”

“It’s what I’ve got,” said the traveler, forcing a strength to his voice that didn't come naturally. “I’ll take what you’ll give for what I've got.”

“What are you doing out here, stray dog?”

“It’s what I’ve got.”

The History Man chuckled, shaking his head. “You front like you’re a feral, but you ain’t. How long's it been since you known thirst? Never wants for guzzoline, this one. Never wants for water. You’re no feral, you’re a stray whose got a home he comes back to, ain’t it? Go back and take what scraps they leave out for you before you're on your way again."

The History Man shuffled towards the traveler. "What are you doing out here, dog? You don’t need to be here.”

The traveler was still, unnaturally so, only his eyes moving as they followed the History Man.

The History Man sucked his teeth, and twitched his head to one side. “Let me see what you’ve fished out of the waste.”

“No.” This time it came out more strained.

“Let me see what you’ve fished out of the waste, or you take your little screamer, and your tins of water and leave, or I can use the both of you to sow my field.”  
The traveler stared at the History Man for a long moment before giving the slightest of nods, turning, and walking out towards his car.

The traveler's car was just outside the History Man's field of bones, a modest two-door thing. The doors were open to keep air flowing, a necessary measure; the mess in the backseat stank of old copper and rot.

Upon first glance the only indication there was more than a heap of dirty old blood-soaked rags were the movement of eyes, drops of black ink on flashing white orbs. Her skin was probably lovely once, a dark rust tone, almost as dark as the History Man’s, but now it was sick, drained, the color of rotted meat.

The rags were pulled back in places, most notably the abdomen. The History Man leaned in, but didn’t touch. The creature’s eyes fluttered. Her lips were cracked like parchment, and opened to reveal a full set of white teeth that were too big for her head. She didn’t seem to notice the two men.

“Bullets?”

“Two.”

“Ah, yep.” It took a moment to figure out where the entry wounds were through all that caked blood, but there they were, still open, still spouting blood like a fetid geyser. “No exit wounds?”

“No.” It came out almost a growl.

“Ah. How old, you reckon?"

"Three thousand days," said the traveler. "Maybe less."

"They must be well-fed where you come from, ain't it? This ones four thousand days if she's an hour. Swatibhakt run small. _Ran_ small, I should say, eh?”

The traveler just sighed, staring out into the bone field spreading out in front of him.

"You'll have a screamer, second you jam them rods in her to fish them bullets out," the History Man continued. "And before you can say 'boo' them Reapers will hear it, they'll come swarming out of the hills, ain't it? Swarming like hornets. Ever see hornets? I bet you have. You've seen it all. Poppy might help with the screaming. Might do."

The traveler waited, and when the History Man didn't continue, he started digging the heel of his bad leg into the ground. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want. You know why I'm out here. Yet you come with scavenge? Tsch!" He jerked his head towards the girl. “And what’s your plan for this, then?”

The traveler looked away again, now towards the hills. "Not your business."

"It very much is my business. You're asking me to make an investment. An investment makes it my business."

The traveler shrugged, not even shooting a glance the History Man's way.

"Parts, then?”

"No."

“Breeding? She won't do you any good on that front."

The traveler’s teeth were grinding in his closed mouth. He kept his eyes to the horizon. “No.”

The History Man smiled with his eyes. ”You're going to trot her off to those fat, happy cunts that leave you their scraps, then. Eh, dog?"

This time, the traveler's gaze jerked towards the History Man.

"Right-o, then. I know who you are. Aye, I know exactly who you are. And this one...” He gestured to the half-conscious creature in the blood-soaked rags. "Swatibhakt. You know them?"

The traveler maintained his calm, waiting. "What is it you want?"

The edge of the History Man's mouth curved, a thin finger running along his arm. "Words. Knowings. This one's folk had a collection, if it ain't burnt by them Reapers. The Swatibhakt won’t have much use for their knowings no more, ain’t it? The band of Reapers that did them in, that took this one, they won’t have much interest in knowings, ain’t it? Words are just kindling to that lot."

The History Man took out the plastic baggy again, so delicate it looked like the wind might break it apart.

"You get this one talking, find out where her folk stash their knowings before they got reaped, and get 'em to me. Get me their knowings, their words. That'll be the return on my investment. You can keep your precious water - you'll need it to deal with that mess." He gestured to the girl. "Get me their knowings, then you can trot this one off to those fat, happy cunts at the Citadel and lap up their scraps before you wander off into the wastes again."

The traveler didn't budge, or respond, just continued to stare the other man down. He knew the History Man was trying to get a rise out of him, find some kind of motive where the kid was concerned, and he clearly didn't care. He just wanted to get out of there.

The History Man reached out and took the traveler's hand, causing the man to nearly jerk his it away. The History Man ignored that, placing the poppy bag into his palm. "Be careful the dose. Half of this bag will put her out of her misery, peaceful-like. But don't pull that before you find out where the Swatibhakt left their knowings."

"Mm." The traveler pocketed the poppy.

"Two weeks," said the History Man. "More than enough time to get down and back from wherever they holed up and got found out, ain't it?"

"And..." the traveler hesitated, eyes darting to the hills. "If I'm not back in two weeks?"

"Then you've just wasted my time, ain't it?" said the History Man, his eyes cold. "Can't afford to make bad investments."

The traveler's eyes burned as well, but not half as fierce. "Mm."

"What you doing out here, dog?" the History Man whispered. "You don't need to be out here."

The traveler looked away again, out towards the horizon, as if he were scanning for enemies. They both knew better.

The History Man looked at the girl, and then again at the traveler. This time, a warning. "Two weeks.”


End file.
